


Sigra Mig

by pokeasleepingsmaug



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, F/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 20:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11676693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokeasleepingsmaug/pseuds/pokeasleepingsmaug
Summary: Ubbe finds the reader after a victory on the battlefield.





	Sigra Mig

**Author's Note:**

> Sigra mig: Conquer me  
> ég gefst upp: I surrender  
> Hjartað mitt: my heart

The Saxon screamed as you braced your foot against his chest and pulled your sword free. The blood welled up around the weapon as it left the wound, and you whirled to find your next victim. He would die shortly; no man could withstand a wound like that. Looking around, you realized the Saxons were in a disorderly retreat, running for the treeline as fast as their shaking knees would carry them. One fell several yards ahead of you, spasming, a feathered shaft quivering in his back. 

He started dragging himself forward, and with a scream of rage you leapt to close the distance between you and plunge your sword into his retreating back. How dare he run from your fury, his fate? Did he dare defy the will of the gods? He lay still as you pulled your blade free. Satisfied he was dead now, you scanned the retreating Saxons for any others you could kill.

A rough hand on your wrist, you tried to wrench your arm free but instead found yourself crushed against a blood-spattered tunic. “Sigra mig,” a a hoarse voice growled against your neck, planting rough bites on the tender skin. Ubbe's gory hands were everywhere, taking, conquering—tangling in your hair, stroking your face, bruising your hips; but your hands were just as demanding. 

“Sigra mig,” you repeated back to him, begging to be his victim. Ubbe shoved you to your knees like a prisoner about to be executed. You felt his arms snake around your waist to the ties at the front of your trousers and you helped him unfasten them. He yanked them down swiftly, pushed you forward onto your hands, and slammed himself into you with a berserker's howl. Your wolf, and to think people underestimated him because he made no secret of his kindness. 

He supported his weight with one hand but the other fisted itself in your hair, pulling your head back as he pounded into you, alternating rough bites and hard, sloppy kisses along your back. You ground your ass against his hips, wanting only to feel him deeper, to feel him burst through you like a sword through the gut. 

You let him continue for a few more rough thrusts before suddenly wrenching yourself free of his hard hands, his devouring mouth. Growling like a hungry wolf, you forced him down, down onto the blood-soaked grass, and slid yourself onto his cock with a moan. Startled, he ceded control for a few moments as you rode him, rutting against him and crying out his name like a choked sob. That was when he started pushing himself deeper into you again, raising you off the ground with his force. 

It wasn't long before even that wasn't enough to satisfy him, the wild conqueror mad for victory, and he dug his hands into your hips and flipped you over. You thudded into the grass, the rising smell of blood and fear almost enough to make you choke. Instead it was Ubbe's hand closing your throat until small spots danced in front of your eyes like blood misting after an ax-blow. 

It only made the feel of Ubbe's savage fucking even more intense, more world-shattering than death itself. “ég gefst upp,” you rasped around the pressure of his hand, your voice like a raven's croak. Air exploded back into your lungs in a frantic gulp as he lifted his hand, only to be released in a scream as his cock slammed into you, rougher than ever. You clenched around him, his name drawn from your kiss-bruised lips in gasping cries.

He followed not long after, pumping into you with a roar that was almost inhuman. Ubbe collapsed onto you, drawing you into his arms as he rolled to his side. “Hjartað mitt,” he crooned, tenderly kissing your swollen lips. He made small shushing noises as you whimpered against him, and now his hands were gentle as they soothed your sensitive, overstimulated flesh. He lifted your tunic, sticking to you with blood and sweat, to stroke every bruising bite he'd left on your back. 

He wandered slowly down your trembling body with soft kisses and tender, blood-sticky hands until you finally lay still and relaxed beneath his ministrations. He finished up with one long, slow lick along your ravaged core, winning a content sigh. He smiled as he sat, pulling you onto his lap and adjusting your clothing back into its proper place.

Ubbe grinned, resting his head on your shoulder and pressing his cheek to yours, and together you surveyed all that you had conquered.


End file.
